


Tangled

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean has a hair fetish, Dean regains his manly pride so we're all good here, Dean/Sam's Hair, M/M, Sam Finds Out, Sassy Sam, Shameless Wincest Smut, Still bottom Sam, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's hair is the most glorious, amazing, wonderful thing Dean knows next to Sam himself, and if his brother ever finds out how attached Dean is, he'll never let him live it down. </p><p> </p><p>So, what say we have Sam find out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled

Dean sees the moment Sam figures it out: a smirk the size of Texas crosses his younger brother's face, shit-eating and smarmy, just before Dean dives, frantically attempting to save face and kiss it off.

Even through the hasty peppering of kisses, Sam smirks. That sexy uplift of his mouth, so self-assured and arrogant, causes Dean's stomach to twist. He longs to do a strange combination of socking Sam in the face and kissing all the pride away fiercely. "Sam, don't."

"You like it," Sam drawls, eyes glancing upwards and sideways to see Dean's fingers deeply entrenched in the cursed locks, and Dean starts swearing internally, because yes, God, the silky-soft Pantene (ew) locks feel like they live and breathe beneath his fingers. "A lot. So all those times you told me to cut it-"

Okay, yes, he was lying and teasing because come _on_ just one swipe of his fingers, one sweet little movement as Sam tucks hair behind his Dumbo ears, just one little caress of those damned strands of hair has Dean practically sweating. Sam doesn't get it, doesn't get how friggin' appealing it is when he teases his hair back with his gigantic hand, when it flops all slo-mo and shaggily and frames the sides of his face. Dean makes a sound, a mixture of a grunt and a whimper, and digs his fingers deeper. "Shut up or I'll shut you up, bitch."

Sam's still doing that stupidly handsome thing with his lips, that _I've got you now, Dean Winchester_ smile that rarely makes an appearance because Dean hides (extremely well, if he does say so himself) the cute things about Sam that turn him on: his dimples, his puppy eyes, the way he squirms in silent and choked laughter when Dean finds that spot on his inner thigh. Sam's figuring them out, surely, but this one's become so obvious, what with Dean spending so much time buried into it and gripping it and kissing it. Oh, and, you know, the event from this morning probably aided in Sam's deduction-- (the moron had spilled syrup in his own hair-- how was it possible for one of the smartest people Dean had ever known to be so  _dumb? --_ and Dean had done nothing less than freak out a little bit). 

"I don't think you're in a position to make threats, jerk." Sam taunts, his hips slowly and almost surreptitiously elevating from the bed to lock against Dean's.

"Sam, you're underneath me." Dean scoffs. "Let's ask ourselves who has the advantage here."

Sam does, obviously. Sam always has the advantage. Dean watches, in outrage and aroused shock, as Sam props onto one elbow to rest like a French model against the headboard. Hazel eyes glitter with devilish, comfortable mischief as Sam alternates between threading dextrous fingers through dark-chestnut locks, ivories clamped down on his bottom lip alluringly, and administering languorous strokes upon his shaft. So... Apparently being on top isn't at all helping Dean in this situation because, even though he's hovering over Sam, he nearly comes in his jeans like a teenager.

"Sam!" He balks, groans, his voice breathy with a whine and coarse with poorly contained lust. "You're such an asshat!"

"But you like it," Sam pouts, eyes flickering from his brother's eyes to where Dean's cock threatens to pull a Hulk and rip through his clothing. He's so aroused that he can't even believe it, what the fuck? Like seriously, what the actual fuck? If he were just a couple years younger, he might have even drooled on the bed a little bit.

"Bet you want," Sam juts upwards a little so that their chests touch, cock brushing against Dean's covered one, and Dean is still stupidly stunned into silence. (Say that three times fast.) "You want me to blow you, suck, kiss, lick until you come all over my lips, my face, my _hair_ -"

" _Jesus_ , Sam!" Dean groans, hand plowing up the back of Sam's shirt like he'll find leverage as he practically slams his brother back down into the bed. His other hand curls into that beautiful, wretched hair, his pants so tight that he might bruise, and he punches Sam in the face with his mouth over and over and over to shut him up. "Christ, Sam, you figure out one fetish and talk like you live in the gutter," he growls, knee nudging into Sam's cock.

Sam giggles, giggles like a delighted schoolgirl, and nuzzles his nose into the crook of his brother's neck. "Can't keep your fingers out of my hair, can you, Dean?" And those sloppy, silky locks taunt him unbearably along with Sam's sweet, inquisitive, _tellmeyouloveme_ grin. Dean gives in and indulges his brother with a long-suffering groan and a growl as he jerks Sam (specially, Sam's mouth) up to meet his by burying his fingers into the other's hair.

"Damn right I can't, baby boy," he gives up, gives in, buries his brow and lips and nose into Sam's wonderful hair. He hitches his leg around one of Sam's so that he has leverage and unzips in record time. A pleased, high mewl from Sam tells him that his almost-blind thrusting has paid off, and he sinks into his brother with a content sigh.

"About this hair fetish-"

Dean's eyes snap open. "Really, Sam?" he complains petulantly. He's balls-deep in Sam and the kid wants to talk about his unhealthy addiction? Yeah, _no_. "Just shut up."

"But I think it's cute, Dean, really-" Dean gazes with dismay at Sam, who has apparently gotten over the need to tease his older brother and has instead passed into the _awwwit'sokayyou'restillcute_ phase. He _so_ doesn't need this- it's like, w _ould you like some embarrassment on top of that embarrassment?_

With a well-timed thrust, Dean cuts off Sam's affectionate words and sighs in relief when his little brother switches out reassurances for wet, pleading moans, his body melting into a writhing, pliant mess of limbs underneath him. Dean doesn't slow, now worried that if he lets Sam speak, this will turn into a pseudo-therapeutic session. Sam may even insist on Dean stroking his hair or something.  _Eugh._

 _"Dean!"_ Sam pleads, a one word demand for his brother to go  _faster._

Dean goes just about dizzy with primal affection, Sam's entire body clenching around his shaft and squeezing and holding like he might never let his older brother go. Their hips rock together like puzzle pieces meeting their match with a click, and Dean's fingers tug at the younger's head and force him to look up, to meet his eyes. Teetering on the verge of a shattering orgasm, he forces himself to slow into his brother's body and clenches his nails into the roots of Sam's warm hair. Sam, after a throaty moan, stares at him, unfocused and pissed off and highly unamused.

"Why the hell did you stop, jerk?" He complains breathily, wiggling his hips futilely and trying to get Dean to slide those last few inches back into him; damn it, he needs his orgasm and he needs it _now!_

"Just reestablishing who's on top," Dean says, and Sam's more than a little worried to hear _the tables have turned, Sammy_ in his voice.

It's bad enough to hear that voice on a day to day basis, usually because it means that Dean is sitting on him and about to tickle him senseless or something (on the long list of things to know about Sam Winchester, there's a dreaded bullet point that says _Sam Winchester is an extremely ticklish little shit_ and on the long list of things to know about Dean Winchester, there's another dreaded bullet point that says _Dean Winchester knows everything about Sam Winchester and therefore knows he's a ticklish little shit)_ and thus, Sam has acquainted this particular tone of voice to mean that he's screwed. Not literally, because Dean has paused in the middle of fucking him to tell him this. 

"-Because you know what I realized, Sam?" Dean continues, and Sam grits his teeth, his orgasm hanging out of reach, and tries to respond so that the asshole will finally get his dick back into him where it belongs.

" _Should_ I know?"

"I realized," Dean says gleefully, not unlike the Cheshire Cat, "while your hair may turn me on--" Another tug on the mop of hair, and Sam can't resist a moan that bursts from somewhere deep and warm in his stomach. Then he realizes far too late what Dean is getting at and turns bright red with complete mortification, his ears burning. He wriggles uselessly with his brother's cock embedded within him, resisting the urge to whine and unbelievably turned on. "-it turns you on more, baby boy."

Sam glares up at his brother, grimacing and now aching so badly for those last few inches that he's practically bouncing to get his hips working. Dean chuckles, low and rich, and kisses his pouty brother behind the ear where he knows Sam likes being kissed even if he staunchly refuses to admit it.

"I guess we'll have to share," he murmurs warmly, and finally slams his hips forward into his brother. The shock from the contact, the words and the tone with which Dean says them, and those sinful fingers clenching into Sam's hair drive the younger Winchester into a spiral of violent pleasure, the orgasm leaving him senseless and rendering him utterly limp for a solid three minutes. His fingers slide from Dean's back and instead against the bed, and from Dean's lack of response, he realizes that Dean must have come right at the same time that he did.

"Christ, Dean," he moans, sleepy and sweaty, and feels his brother tease the curls flattened against the nape of his neck with callous and gentle fingers. "Am I going to have to work out some kind of time share with you and my hair? Cause that means sharing you, and... I mean, we both have you equally whipped, so it's not like it matters, jerk."

Dean chuckles, and it's beautiful.

"Please. One tug and I own you, bitch." He pulls a little, and Sam's pleased hum reaffirms his point. With another bout of silent snickers, he bestows a chaste kiss atop the ridiculous head of hair and snuggles into his brother's side with a sleepy sigh. He'll clean up later (maybe). "Besides, you could be bald and I'd still fuck you speechless."

 _Love you,_ in Winchester language.

He can feel Sam's nose wrinkle and imagine the bitchy look down to a tee. Probably Sam overthinking, as usual. "Really?"

Dean abruptly frowns. "Yes, Sam, really. Just how materialistic do you think I am?"

The hesitation is just a second too long. "Uhm."

The older plows an annoyed and gentle fist into Sam's side, and the kid groans simply on principle, because that probably didn't hurt the Sasquatch at all. "Sam!"

A huff of affectionate laughter is all he needs to hear before he's drifting, face buried into perfect Sammy and his perfect hair.

(Let's not get him started on those eyes because _damn it_ , just the hair and he's already whipped.)


End file.
